


A Study in Hazel

by MrsCaulfield



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Crowley here is the epitome of the john mulaney "this may as well happen" quote, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Modern Day Crowley, Time Travel, Touch-Starved Aziraphale (Good Omens), Victorian Aziraphale, gratuitous use of minute references to canon, meet ugly, should i put an age gap tag here? Or is it obvious enough?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:53:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28812981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsCaulfield/pseuds/MrsCaulfield
Summary: Aziraphale is firmly of the belief that, according to the old texts, three steps are all that keep one from their heart’s greatest desire. Where is the harm in attempting them? - Everywhere, apparently, as he soon finds out when he’s trapped inside his bookshop, fighting for his life.All Crowley asks is a little more variety to his daily routine. But coming home to his flat one night to an out-of-this-century person curled up asleep on his couch is probably just the universe mocking him now.There sure are some strange ways for two people to be brought together.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 117
Kudos: 202





	1. Hazel

**Author's Note:**

> This sort of came to me randomly when I thought "man it sure would be funny if my fancy-talking regency aziraphale meets modern day crowley" and now it's a fully-plotted multichap. Right now I'm estimating it'll have about 10 chapters? But it could be longer if i think up more scenes, idk.
> 
> It's a little chaotic at the start but I promise you it'll make sense in the later chapters.
> 
> Oh, and mind the rating. Buckle up, things are gonna get full horny sometime later... 
> 
> If you've read some of my other works, you might know that I'm more of a Regency specialist than a Victorian one, so if Aziraphale has any Regency habits here, let's just pretend that he still has that old-fashioned spirit, even by Victorian standards 😂
> 
> *
> 
> Cw: elements of homophobia typical in a Victorian setting, but only referenced and not directly or graphically described.
> 
> Huge thanks again to my beta/partner in crime Stef (@flamingbentley) for brainstorming this whole AU with me ❤

According to the timeworn tongue of esoteric text, there are but three steps to obtain the heart's greatest desire: the words, the markings, and the _wish_. But time did pass and bury the secret, laid on it the shades of sense that, independent of the most scrupulous discernment, can never achieve true credibility when borne from the least sensible of minds. These steps were treated as turnpikes that stood passively by, seen and occasionally admired, but not entirely heeded, until they faded into obscurity. It was so fated that no person has succeeded in taking on these hindrances in nearly a thousand years, no person come so dangerously close, until the text befell the hands of one solitary shopkeeper in Soho. 

The edges of the _wish_ have only just dissipated on Mr Fell's tongue. The turnpikes breached; the millennium of dry spell come to an end. And a moment after he is thrown to wrestle with the clawed grasp of death on his leg.

With his back plastered to the bookcase wall, he blindly drags a hand over the wooden desk, grip closing on a heavy metal object. He fights the urge to breathe, lest he betray his spot. The weaponed hand comes up to smear cold sweat on his face. A relic of burns seizes his wrist, from where a weighty rope has scraped off the surface, marred into the skin. 

A hand darts to his collar, heaving him back with a gasp. Mr Fell twists and swings the blunt hilt of his weapon into the attacker's head. _Crack!_ A beastly scream erupts, and he pedals back, making a narrow escape. He blocks out the sound, near-unconsciously, and focuses on the scintilla of jasmine smoke in the air.

He scampers out of the shadows, scanning familiarity over his obtained weapon. _Hang it!_ He has gone for the paper-knife—heavy brass, but not nearly enough to do real damage. But suffice it must, if he is to have a sliver of chance at escaping with his life.

He _must_ get to the circle.

He steps into the light, sacrificing a reveal. Two more sets of steps run towards him, and there are screams though the words do not register. The circle comes in view, and a stout man approaches its edges. "No!" Mr Fell cries, barely snatching the man by his cloak and brutally forcing him back. The man spits into his face, and he widens his stance. "Keep away! Keep away from the circle!"

Thick rope is held in the grasp of the affronted attacker. Mr Fell fends him off, but then another pair of hands shoves into his side. He lands on the floor, his head breaking the fall, and a deafening thud rattles in the inner recesses of his brain, scorching pain spreading through his body.

He heaves a gasp, clutching desperately the paper-knife to his stomach. He rolls onto his side. The book is only just so beyond his reach. He attempts to crawl, but a hand seizes the binding from the floor, snatching it up as though it were little more than street litter. The trembling fabric of his coat is layered with chalk dust, the ruins of a series of sigils lying beneath his frail form.

He’s landed inside the circle.

He closes his eyes and concedes—easily done, for he was never meant to last this long. 

There's more words and laughter spat at him; cutting and digging deeper than his mere paper-knife could be capable of doing. But the acquiescence comes with a bout of tranquility. Mr Fell has read about it being so in the older text, the transition into the state of unliving, and very nearly does it get a dark chuckle to rise out of his throat. The transition, to him, is so readily made when he has long since stopped having a life.

A lighting of candles. A ringing of bells. The scintilla of jasmine. 

Then, a blinding flash of light.

Mr Fell dares to open his eyes for a final time. 

The circle is alit, a beacon of white to the lobby. The attackers make a round of astonished gasps. Mr Fell barely holds back his own. 

This lasts for the eternity of two seconds. Then, finally, his soul detaches his body into a full transition. A no less than peaceful acquiescence.

He disappears, easy as that.

The assailants stand with gaping mouths, courage withered under the garish cast of ethereal light. They dash toward the nearest exit. 

Behind them, in the now-abandoned bookshop, a candelabra topples down, catching fire into the scattered tinder and wooden floors.

* * *

The thing about these fancy arse heritage buildings is that they always have the shoddiest _stairs_. The steps come up short. They never have the right _width,_ and are a blatant stick of schmuck to people with large feet. Or people wearing pointy leather shoes. Then again, Anthony Crowley already knows what to expect. He's been living in the damn place for three years, after all. That's plenty enough training for his sensible, sober self. His _tipsy_ arse, though, could still do with a bit more instruction.

"Hey, _hey."_ Crowley snaps his fingers to get his companion's attention. Er, Daniel? Damien? No, it's definitely Daniel. "Daniel, get off a bit. Yer heavy."

Daniel giggles into his neck, slowly releasing his hold from Crowley's waist. Least he got the name right. _Fuck._ Crowley is way too old for this. But he's stressed and horny and single and it isn't like he has a spread of options to choose from. It was either this or another night of passionate _lonesome lovemaking_ on his couch, a stack of old James Bond DVDs for company. And for someone's sake, covering Bee's and Dagon's shifts while they went on their honeymoon hasn't exactly puked sunshines and rainbows. He deserves a fucking break.

They climb the stairs up the side of the building, bit faster now without Daniel clinging to him and dragging him down. They make do with a few quick kisses to the neck and some mumbled swearing when they trip on their feet. The arms are back around Crowley's waist when they enter into the corridor of flats. They erupt into giggles while he fishes for his keys and jams them into his lock.

Daniel purrs into his neck. "The things I'm gonna do to _you,_ handsome." 

Crowley opens the door. "Er..."

Daniel pries his face from Crowley's shoulder, visibly holding back a wince. "Uh... who's that?" He waves a hand over the sleeping figure on Crowley's sofa.

Right. So there's a complete stranger _sleeping_ in Crowley's living room.

"Hn," Crowley replies helpfully. He darts a quick glance over his one-bedroom. Nothing seems to be out of place, so whoever this person is, they're at least a pretty shite robber.

Crowley sighs. "Yeah, let me... let me just deal with this real quick." 

The stranger is rolled on their side, curled up and facing the back of the sofa. A long beige coat covers much of their body, and from Crowley's view it looks like their hair is blond—almost white. He approaches steadily.

"Oi." He shakes the stranger's shoulder, and it takes a few tries and a couple rougher shoves before they stir awake. "Mate, sorry 'bout this, but you gotta get up. Dunno how you got _in_ here, but I think you got the wrong flat."

The person shifts, rolling on their back, and pale brows quiver while their senses gather. Crowley has a scowl deep-set on his face.

The stranger's lids squint and slowly draw themselves apart, batting a set of long, dark eyelashes.

_Hazel._

The first thing Crowley sees from this person, really _sees_ from them, is a pair of bright hazel eyes, struggling to adjust under the fluorescents.

The hazel eyes narrow for a bit, taking the lights and Crowley in. Crowley, still scowling, removes his sunglasses. "Who are—"

_"Demon!"_

The blond heaves upwards with a start and, in a motion far too fast for Crowley’s sluggish brain to handle, springs up on their legs and swings over behind the sofa. 

"Woah, wait!" 

The intruder takes out his hand, holding up a golden ornate weapon towards him. "Make no further step toward me!"

 _"Shit,_ Crowley, he's got a dagger!"

Crowley ignores him. He holds his hands placatingly, trying to get the nutter to calm down. "No, no, come on. We don't have to get all violent here. Put the weapon down."

The stranger's wild hazel eyes are wide open, his hair in disarray. He holds the dagger in front of him like he isn't afraid to wield it. It looks mighty precious, decked out gold and glinting. Crowley swallows hard, suppressing a tremble. How many screams have been drawn, how many bodies _shorn open_ by a weapon like that, all in the name of madness? 

"Who are you? How have you come to invade my premises, foul fiend? _"_ They hold the dagger in a steady grasp. Obviously experienced.

"You're one to talk. This is _my_ flat!"

Their wild eyes dart around the room. Confusion slowly sets in. Christ. They must be even more plastered than Crowley is. 

"What on Jove and Jupiter have you done to my establishment?" They hold the dagger out to Crowley more firmly. "Take no step further, demon! You would be wise to speak in earnest, or I'll have you hanged and quartered before the day is done."

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

The stranger takes a step towards him, the sofa the only thing separating them now. The dagger glints under the lights, pressing into Crowley's side. 

"Explain to me what you have done! And do not for a moment believe that your being a demon frightens me. I have no patience for _shammers."_

"Me? I didn't do anything! _You_ showed up here. Just tell me how you got in before I call the police."

The intruder searches his face, with a scowl to match Crowley's. The dagger shifts against Crowley's jacket, and he doesn't dare to try moving. Never can know what goes on in the minds of these nutcases.

"Look I... I gotta go. Sorry, mate. I can't do this." Daniel scurries off towards the door and leaves without closing it.

Crowley expels a hoarse gust of breath, turning back to the intruder. "See what you did there? D’you have any idea how bloody hard it is to pick someone up dead on a Tuesday night?"

"Pick someone—? You have _nabbed_ that poor gentleman off the streets, you vile creature!"

Crowley scrubs a hand over his face, groans hard. "Look, just-just put that thing down and let's go have a _talk,_ shall we?" He can't suppress the tone of mock-politeness, which probably isn't the wisest thing to do when you've got someone pressing a life-threatening murder weapon in dangerously close proximity to some vital organs, but it's far from being the most ridiculous thing he's done.

To his surprise, the stranger relaxes—only a little, but Crowley counts his blessings. The dagger leaves his body. The stranger keeps their hold on it, but swings it by the side of their thigh. Crowley exhales loudly.

"Explain yourself, demon Crowley—assuming that is your _real_ name."

Crowley barely stops himself from bringing up that it should be him making the demands. _Jesus._ This isn't what he had in mind when he said he's looking for a bit of variety.

"My name's Anthony Crowley," he says with forced calmness. "I live here. This is my flat. Who are you?"

The stranger nods. "I am Aziraphale Fell, and I... well I am not quite certain where I am."

"Hey, this is probably the worst time to ask since moments ago you were trying to kill me, but what pronouns do you use?"

The stranger blinks rapidly. "Pronouns?" The word sounds foreign, dragging like frozen honey off their tongue.

"Yeah, like, do you go by he-him or something else? Figured I should ask."

The intruder turns contemplative. "I've never given it much thought. _Should_ I do that?"

Crowley shrugs. "If you feel like it."

"Quite strange for a demon to ask, but." They purse their lips. "He-him will do for now, I suppose."

"Great." It isn't, really, but it's a habit that gets him to reply with it automatically, completely forgetting for a moment the gravity of their situation. Right. Off to the gritty part. "Now how the fuck did you get in my flat?"

"I do not know!" He turns skittish as he looks more and more around Crowley's space. "The last I recall, I was— _Oh_. Oh dear, forgive me, I struggle to reconcile—I haven't the foggiest idea where I was last!"

"Where do you live then?"

"Ah, right." He sounds like he's in a state of shock. "If you would be so agreeable as to point me towards the direction of A.Z. Fell & Co. bookshop, in Soho."

"A.Z. Fell & Co.? Did I hear that right?"

"Indisputably so."

"Right, you're having me on."

"On _what?_ You are standing on two feet! I must return to my bookshop."

"Bollocks."

"Will you quit with your strange demonic tongue? You wily creature! Where is the bookshop?" 

"We're in it, dumbass."

He freezes. "What can you mean by this... this barbarous jape?"

"No, no, don't use the dagger! I'll be nice!"

"Hmpf."

"This whole building _is_ A.Z. Fell & Co. The bookshop's downstairs."

"Well, what on Jupiter is it doing down there?"

" _You_ tell me! I'm just the bloke renting one of the flats up here." Crowley groans, moves to stand with his hip cocked to armrest of the sofa. The intruder watches him very carefully, maintaining a strict distance between them. "Hang on, did you say your name was Fell? Are you related to the guy who owned the place, then? Is that why you're here? Cause you overshot the front entrance by leaps, mate."

"Demon, I _own_ this place!" He says sharply. "And I do not know what occult forces you have expelled to form this complex sham, but you are not to take me down without the gravest of scruples."

Crowley groans into the ceiling.

"So," he replies, exasperated. "You're telling me _you're_ A.Z. Fell?" 

"Indeed I am!"

"Right, I'm calling the police." He takes out his phone from his pocket, swiftly unlocking the screen. 

A strong hand slaps into his, sending the phone flying off towards the wall.

"Oi! Watch it, that model came out last week!"

The stranger's chest is heaving. "I know not the kind of bird-wit you think me to be, but I know better than to let you use your demonic contraptions on my person!"

Crowley blinked. "The heck? Don't tell me you don't know what a smartphone is either. What kind of fall did you have?"

"I simply need to get myself out of this ruse that you have built, but I will take you with my bare hands the first chance I get!"

Considering the circumstance, this should not have sounded the least bit sexy, but unfortunately, Crowley has the brain of a medieval reptile. Also, it's been a while. Excuse him.

"Who the _fuck_ are you?"

"I told you, I am Aziraphale Fell of A.Z. Fell & Co.!"

Crowley scoffs. "Quit pulling my leg."

"Again, you are standing on two feet." 

"Yeah, been letting you entertain me with all that demon stuff, but this? You can't expect me to believe you're some ghost of a guy from like, a _hundred and fifty years ago."_

"A ghost? How dare—my father put up this shop not three-and-twenty years ago."

"Look, Fell." 

He recoils at the sound of his name, clutching his golden dagger tightly to his chest. His eyes keep darting around and around the flat like he really has no clue where he is, and with each second his initial courage makes way to increasing anxiety. He's frightened. Crowley almost feels bad for him. Almost.

"Demon," he mutters back, but there's a lot less edge to it now.

And for some reason, this is when Crowley takes a good look at the intruder. Fell is wearing a posh long coat and brown waistcoat, but there's something strange about the way his whole outfit's been put together. There are some signs of wear and tear--like he's come out from a fight. His neck is enclosed in a ruffly tartan cloth, collartips turned down and over at the top. The scruffy strips of blond hair running down the sides of his face, near the front of his ears, are vaguely familiar. That's the final piece that Crowley needs to slot everything together.

"Yeah, Fell, tell me honestly, all right? What year is it?"

"Do not make a stuffed bird laugh," he scoffs, turning up his nose. "This must surely be a ruse. You have been all havey-cavey since the beginning of this little chat!"

"Right. Havey-cavey demon, me. Year?"

Fell straightens his shoulders.

"1856. The middle of September."

Crowley nods.

He turns back, snatching off the company desk calendar he keeps on the little side table, unsure if Fell will even know what it is, but shoves it into his face anyway.

"It's two-thousand-nineteen, mate. And you're in my flat."

Fell starts trembling like a leaf. "What?"

"What, do I need to fetch you your fainting couch, oh fair maiden?"

"Well, I do-I do need to..."

He collapses back on the sofa. Crowley stands over him, his arms crossed.

"Look, I'm still very faintly drunk and I don't have the brain capacity to go all Doctor Who on this, but d'you mind telling me what's going on? For real?"

"Doctor what?"

 _"Who."_ Crowley winces. Yeah, that was a right waste of effort. "You really don't remember what happened to you before you got here?"

Fell goes silent, trying very hard to gather some memories, but he shakes his head. 

"But you're sure you live in A.Z. Fell & Co.?"

"Entirely certain."

"Right. Come with me."

Crowley retrieves his phone and motions toward the door. A flicker of hesitation rises in Fell's face. He braces himself for another round of demon persecution, but it doesn’t come.

Fell stands up and follows him out of the room.

They move out into the corridor, walking to the very end where Crowley heaves apart the double-doors leading outside, where the shoddy stairs await. This is _insane._

A car-horn blares from a distance. Fell releases a squeak, clawed grasp wrenching into Crowley's sleeve. Crowley sighs, turning back to glance at him.

"Relax. It's just a car. There's plenty of them out here." They reach the pavement, where more cars pass by still. Crowley can't help but keep glancing at Fell. Poor thing looks constipated. He grabs Fell's arm, motioning them to the front of the building. "But stay close to me, just in case."

Fell nods. And thank _someone_ he's finally cooperating.

They stop in front of a set of glass doors. All dark right now, after shop hours. He hears Fell gasp. Crowley points to the signboard above.

**'A.Z. Fell & Co. - since 1833'**

"This is... This is my bookshop," he says, almost in awe. "It's still here?"

"Sort of."

Fell casts a doubtful look at him. "How do you mean?"

"They kept the facade," explains Crowley, vaguely recalling the history of the place from when he was searching for vacancies. "Restored it, I think. Made it a historical landmark. But inside it's just a Waterstones."

"A what?"

"It's been bought out."

A pained look crosses Fell's face. "Then where have my... where have all my books gone?"

"Wish I could tell you," Crowley says consolingly.

But it doesn't seem to work. Fell's eyes glisten, his lips quivering, and ah _shit_. Crowley takes out his phone and pulls out the Wikipedia page for ‘A.Z. Fell & Co.’

There's a bunch of history on it, truth be told, but he didn't really care that much when he saw it the first time. He skims a little, scrolling further down. 

And then—the photo.

He clicks to view the full image instantly, squinting at his screen.

Because the man in the portrait is _undoubtedly_ familiar. He's sitting on a stool, dainty hands folded on his lap. To his side is a writing desk filled with all sorts of ornate bits and bobs, but they're faded somehow. Like they hardly matter, or they aren't important compared to the true subject of the piece. Same fluffy white hair. Same broad shoulders. Nearly the same outfit, even. And the artist must've had some mad skill to capture his eyes like that. 

Not that they were anything special... or anything.

Crowley holds up his phone right next to Fell, verifying everything. Christ. He may as well have just stepped out straight from the picture. 

But that couldn't be. Fell said he's from 1856. The caption on the image says:

_Portrait of Mr Aziraphale Fell, dated 1854._

"Damn. Really wish I was dead sober for this."

Fell stares at him oddly. "Did you say something, dear?"

Crowley flusters, snatching back his phone and moving on to read the text.

"I'm pulling up a search on your bookshop."

All he gets in response is a confused glance. Right. 

"Er, I mean. We have this thing called the internet. People store information on it and anyone can look it up when they need it. There's information on your bookshop here."

"Like a futuristic circulating library, then?"

"Hmm... yeah, let's just go with that explanation for now. I'm too drunk to cope." He isn't that drunk. Not really, but he doubts anyone can go through all these events in quick succession without feeling at least a _little_ plastered. "There's information on you, too. Hang on, this is odd."

"What is happening? What have you found?"

"Says here... Did you say you were from 1856?"

"Yes."

"Fell, it says you _died_ in 1856." 

"What?" Fell doesn't know where to look. Crowley really feels sorry for him now. This must all be some tough stuff to take in. "But I am still here!"

"Yeah, but not in _1856_ here. You're in 2019 here. Location isn't just tracked down to space, it's a mix of space _and_ time."

Fell grows increasingly confused.

"Is there any information about _how_ I passed?"

Crowley tries to brace him for it, but there's not much point to it, is there? He's gonna have to be blunt if they want to get to the bottom of this.

"It says you perished in the fire.”

“What fire?”

“The fire that _razed_ this bookshop.” A series of pained looks shift over the canvas of Fell’s face. “They restored it a decade later, kept the name and facade, but the actual ownership's been through several people since."

He draws up a shaky, unconvincing smile. "Is... Is not that just the strangest thing?"

"Hey." Crowley shuts off his phone, mournful. "Fell, are you okay?"

Fell laughs, the sound of it scorchingly bitter.

"I suppose I have had a long time to grieve. Quite silly to fly up into boughs now, nearly two centuries after."

"I don't know what's going on here exactly, but I'm sorry." Crowley considers giving him a shoulder pat but decides against it. Fell looks mere seconds from toppling over. "But hey, that's still your name up there. Or your father's name? I dunno."

"It is mine," he replies wistfully. "My father named it after me."

"Then in some ways, it's still yours. You live on—metaphorically. And well, literally too, I guess."

Fell's smile improves. Marginally. 

"How do I get back?"

This is the question Crowley's been dreading. "Sorry. I don't even know how you got here. Time travel in 2019—there's been some theories, but we still haven't got it down to pat. But science is getting there. Would love to know what kind of tech you used to get here, though."

Fell looks concerned. "I have been attempting to recall... but there is nothing. There are bare bones, wisps of a memory, and the scent of _jasmine?—_ oh, but it inches further away the more I try to retrieve it."

"Okay, maybe what you need is some rest for now. Maybe that will bring back your memories. We should get back to the flat, it's getting late."

"You would let me stay in your home?"

Crowley rather surprised himself, too. "Yeah, I mean. Don’t want to think what you'll get yourself into on your own. But if you wanna leave, I won't stop you."

"No!" Fell starts, then halts himself, flushing faintly. "I-I mean, if you feel that it would not impose so much on your hospitality, I would greatly appreciate a place to stay for the night."

They start up the stairs again. "Why not? Made yourself very comfy on my couch already a while ago."

"It is remarkably cosy," replies Fell, and Crowley is taken aback by the hint of joking in his tone. Huh. Turns out he can be a lot more bearable once they get past all that demons talk. 

"Spent quite a lot on it. So don't mess it up."

Fell gives him an accusing look. "I am not so uncouth as to do that."

"You were threatening me with a dagger just a while ago!"

"A dagger?" They arrive at the top of the stairs and Fell reaches into his coat. "Do you mean this?"

He waves the golden object in the air, flips it on his palm and grabs the blade in a tight grasp, the broad hilt sticking out from above his fingers. Crowley’s heart lodges into his throat, but he doesn’t even wince. He doesn’t scream. There isn’t any blood.

Fell gives a genuine, hearty laugh.

"What the hell _is_ that?"

Fell tucks the object back into his coat and walks ahead of him. "If you succeed in helping me return to my time, then I promise you will find out."

Crowley stammers for a bit. Who knew these posh old-timey people can be such bastards?

"We'll work on it starting tomorrow. My head hurts."

Fell nods. "I am not entirely certain if it is the traveling that did this, but there is a niggling pain at the back of my skull that I feel should be diverting more of my attention."

"Maybe you should just sleep on it." Crowley opens the door to his flat and the two of them step back in.

"Agreed. I find that I am quite fagged."

Crowley blanches. Fell shoots him an odd, questioning look.

"Yeah. Might be best you don't say that while you're here."

  
  


**

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, my Victorian Aziraphale talks exactly like Schitt's Creek's Moira Rose what about it
> 
> I'd love to know what you think of this premise! <3 And I'm sorry in advance for some historical inaccuracies haha I'm constructing this entirely based on vague spillover stock knowledge I have from my Regency culture research. I just really thought this would be a fun thing to explore and tbh yeah i'm having the time of my life just having these two argue with each other 😅
> 
> Also: If you understand the reference for the fic title, you already have a *clue* about what will happen in the next chapter! ;)


	2. Upstart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fell's introduction to modern day society is a remarkable one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to update this! This is more or less plotted out, but I keep changing the format I want for it. Ultimately, I decided this will be just more of a character study than a multichap with heavy plot, so I shortened the chapter count. I'm really ecstatic about the response this had! I'm thrilled so many of you liked Victorian Aziraphale <3 Hope you enjoy this next chapter!

Crowley awakens to slivers of sunlight from his window, which is by itself odd enough. How did he forget to shut the curtains? His light-sensitive eyes burn even as he clamps them shut and he rolls over to reach for his glasses on the nightstand.

There's nothing there.

Where did he last leave them? He tries to retrace his steps from last night, before he went to bed. Let's see—He went up to the flat, ready to drop dead on his sheets, but somehow managed to drag himself to the sink first and brushed his teeth. He doesn't remember placing down his glasses. Instead, that insane dream he had keeps pushing back his attempts to jog his memory. Fine. If his blasted brain's gonna be that stubborn about this.

He gets up and drags the curtains closed, swathing the room in dimmed, grey-ish light.

Much better.

Crowley pads over to the door, yawning loudly.

"Oh, good. You are awake—"

Crowley starts at the ringing voice, one hand still stuck to the door while the posh blond man from his insane dream stands in his kitchen and turns to face him.

"Whaa-"

Wasn't a dream.  _ Duh. _

"Now might be a time to— _ good God!"  _ Crowley barely catches the sight of Fell's face going fiercely red before he spins back around to face the wall, shoulders drawn up into a tight line. "Why are you unhabilimented?"

"What—"

"Crowley, where are your clothes?"

Crowley looks down. Right. Forgot to wear a shirt. But who can blame him? Just thirty seconds ago he was magically convinced he was alone in his flat. You know, the usual.

Last night he was too drunk to cope. Now he's just too groggy to stay awake.

"Uhh, yeah, sorry. Let me just get... habilimented."

He disappears into his room, quickly slapping on a cotton shirt before venturing back. 

Fell is still facing the wall, his shoulders heaving.

Crowley grabs his glasses from the living room and shoves them on his face. He walks past Fell to get to the kitchen and gets the coffee pot running. "So," he says, leaning with his hip on the grey marble countertop. "Did the sleeping do you any good? Any memories come back to you?"

Cautiously, Fell turns around. His cheeks are still tinged pink, making them look a little fuller and more cherubic. It looks as if he doesn't know what to do with his hands. He wrings his fingers in complex motions over his stomach.

"There is something," he replies. "Though I am afraid the rest of it still eludes me. But I do recall something about a book."

"What kind of book?"

"I wish I could remember. Only... only I think that I used that book to get myself here."

Crowley raised his brows. "You tried to come here on purpose?"

Fell has a look of intense concentration, growing increasingly pained the more he tries. He sighs. "I do not know. I certainly would  _ not _ have tried to transplant myself across time—the idea would never have occurred to me. But surely the book has a lot to do with how I got here, for I collect many ancient and esoteric texts in my trade."

"And you think one of these has found a way to travel across time, way back in the nineteenth century?" Crowley asks, doubtful. He pours the coffee into two mugs, places one on the kitchen table for Fell to take. 

"It is the only plausible explanation we can come up with, for now." Fell grabs the mug of coffee, taking a small sip though his mind is pretty much located elsewhere. "I shall inform you directly, should anything else come to mind."

That doesn’t exactly help much, but it can be a good thing, surely. It means Fell’s memories are coming back to him, if a bit grudgingly. They just have to wait it out a bit more.

Crowley hums into his mug, suddenly wishing it were filled with something vaguely alcoholic instead.

"Did you, uh, you sleep okay? On the couch, I mean."

Fell snaps out of his trancelike state, the pointer finger that he's been running on the rim of his mug coming to a standstill. His eyes go wide, showing white all around bright hazel irises, more noticeable now in the light of day.

"Yes, it was sufficient." 

"Good."

"You need not worry, I am not quite so high on the instep as to be incapable of managing one night on a sofa."

Crowley coughs. "What-what do you mean one night? You going somewhere after this?"

"Well, I can only assume, what with all the tumult from last night, that you have not had the opportunity to prepare for my arrival."

"That's a pretty big understatement."

"So the sofa would suffice for the night." Fell squares his posture, his chin tipping up. "I would like to be shown to my rooms now."

Screw the coffee. Crowley desperately wants to be sloshed right now.

He beams, gesturing with one hand to the space around them. "Allow me to show your  _ rooms,  _ Your Grace."

Fell frowns. "Now there's no need for that hostility." 

Great. Seems he's finally gotten a hold of sarcasm. "What d'you think I'm trying to pull here, Fell? Where else would you sleep?"

"This cannot be it. This was  _ my _ home. I lived here." says Fell, sweeping a glance about the flat. He crosses the living room, moving to some shelving case up against the wall where Crowley keeps a stack of old CDs. Behind it is a set of double doors that have been wallpapered over together with the rest of the room. "Why have you blocked the passageway?"

He shrugs. "Wasn't me, and it's not much of a passageway anymore. It leads to the flat next door, but it's probably bricked over now."

An intricate furrow appears between Fell's brows. "They have changed a lot, but I still recognise the layout. This was my drawing-room, and through those doors was my book-room."

"Why would you have a book room above a  _ bookshop? _ " Crowley steps over to his side. "Never mind. Don't really wanna know the answer. Wait, so you're telling me that the room next door was also yours?"

"The entire first floor is an enfilade, my dear," he replies. Crowley shoots him a helpless glance. "A suite of rooms all lined up by a row of double doors."

"Hang on, so  _ all _ the flats in here were yours?"

"You seem rather stymied. I am more surprised at your ability to live in what is little more than a stable-box."

"Oi! D'you know how much it costs to rent a one-bedroom in London these days? An arm and a leg! Throw in a kidney, even."

"I would rather not."

"Bottomline is, my couch is  _ yours, _ Your Highness."

"Is that an insult?" A genuine question. It takes Crowley aback.

"Not at all. You were 'your grace' just a while ago. If anything you've been promoted."

"What, from a dukedom to a principality?"

"Whatever you wanna call it." Say what you will about Crowley, but he isn’t a cheapskate. He spared no expense with furnishing. His flat is  _ classy— _ lots of people have told him so. He isn't about to take criticism from someone old enough to be his great-grandfather.

Fell rolls his eyes, turning back towards the blocked doors. "So they have divided up my suites, and sold them in pieces?"

"Pretty much." It occurs to him belatedly that that came out kinda callous. He softens, just a little. "S'just. Things are really different now."

Fell nods. He doesn't tremble or go teary-eyed like he did the previous night. If anything, he looks remarkably stone-cold sober.

"Hang on." The note of excitement in his voice gets Fell's attention. He snaps his head to look at Crowley, brow raised.

"What is it?"

"You're a  _ Victorian." _

"I suppose I am. What about it?"

The smile that Crowley makes is filled with wicked glee. "This is brilliant. We can-we can solve this case like Sherlock Holmes!"

"Is he a friend of yours?"

"What? No! Come on,  _ Sherlock Holmes."  _ At Fell's continuing blank stare, Crowley resorts to wild flailing of his hands. "Y'know. Great genius detective from the Victorian era? Solves tons of mysteries and fights bad guys with his sidekick-slash-life partner John Watson? Wait. Hang on."

Crowley skids off to the small stack of reading material he keeps under the coffee table. He pulls out a thin book and places it on Fell's waiting palm. "And here I thought you were a book person."

Fell looks mildly annoyed as he reads the binding.  _ "A Study in Scarlet. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle." _ Dubious, he heads for the opening pages.  _ "First published in 1887. _ Crowley, this is a whole three decades beyond myself!"

"What, really? My bad."

"Goodness, exactly how long was Victoria queen  _ for?" _

"Like, a hundred years?" Crowley's mind is still reeling. "How can you live in a world without Sherlock Holmes? Or, god forbid,  _ Bond?" _

"Bond?"

"James Bond." Fell tries to return the book to him, but he refuses it. "Nope. Call it a required reading. You can't live in modern day London and  _ not _ know who Sherlock Holmes is. You'll thank me later, trust me."

"Oh, all right." Fell clutches the book to his chest. It's dreadfully worn out, the corners dog-eared and crinkly, but Fell's smooth hands run over it like it's the crown jewels. "I have been looking to do some reading. But I am telling you there were plenty of contemporary stories for me to appreciate in my time."

"None of them holds a candle to Sherlock Holmes, I bet."

"What is so great about this Holmes fellow?" 

"I'm not gonna spoil it for you. You'll just know it, like everyone else does."

"To be sure you are blinded by your personal preference."

"Fell. Sherlock Holmes is not a personal preference. He is an  _ icon." _

"Well, there are-there are the Brontes, for a start. Though I doubt you would know—"

"Jane Eyre, yeah. A classic."

Fell scowls. "All right. Also Wuthering Heights, if you are familiar."

"Heathcliff's an arsehole."

"Fine, I see you know the fundamentals." Fell appears to be contemplating something, then— "Oh! There is this one lovely new release that I have come across. The content is most riveting, and quite a remarkable step for the works of female authors."

"And this is...?

"North and South. Though I doubt you would—"

"Oh yeah. Mr Thornton's insanely hot."

Fell gives him a confused glance. "It is set during the winter. In  _ Manchester,  _ dear."

"No, I mean—y'know what? Never mind." Crowley points at the Holmes book again. "Just go read that. I'm gonna take a shower, and we'll go out and get you some new clothes cause you'll be needing them if we dunno how long you'll be here for."

* * *

"I have been meaning to ask about these stairs. Why are they so..."

"Rubbish? Hell if I know. Scuffed many of my leather shoes on these steps. Right pain in the arse they are."

"There were no stairs here when this building was under my possession."

"Yeah, it's a new addition. They had to put 'em in when they renovated the first floor and separated it from the bookshop."

"I see. It looks rather like they ran out of space to do a proper one."

"Exactly. They wedged it in. Watch this one. Don't walk on the right side. It's half the width of the left."

"What a dreadful inconvenience. Who designed this?"

"Some demon, probably."

—

"Crowley, I-I do not mean to sermon you in the ways of this world but... I am quite certain that a carriage is not meant to move this fast!"

_ "Car,  _ Fell. It's called a car. No one's been using horses for daily travel in like a hundred years. Not since that war went on."

"War?"

"First World War, I think."

"There has been  _ more than one _ world war?"

"You know, human things."

"Crowley, stop the carriage."

"S'not a carriage, Fell."

"Fiend,  _ seize it! _ —oh, oh dear..."

—

"You... you threw up... in my car. You  _ upwelled _ in my  _ Bentley." _

"I beseeched you to stop driving!"

"You told me you were 'not up to dick'—what the  _ hell _ was I supposed to make out of that?"

"Carriages are not meant to go that fast. None of all the other drivers I saw were within ames-ace of your negligence!"

"Fell, for the last time, it's called a  _ car." _

"I will call it what I like."

"You're insuff—wait, Fell.  _ Fell! _ Where are you going?"

"I refuse to put myself through another round inside that throttle-machine! No, if you insist on driving in that manner, I have much better go on foot."

"Fell, this is ridiculous. You don't even know where you're going... Fell. Fell, come on—all right! Fine, I'll drive slower! Please, just get in the car."

"..."

"I'm sorry. I'll be more careful, I promise."

"...All right. But the instant you exceed yourself again, I will not be blamed for another  _ upstart _ in your precious Bentley."

_ — _

"You cannot be serious."

"I'm dead serious. No one wears the frilly neckthings anymore. You have to take it off."

"But-but... must I really? It seems awfully imprudent."

"Look around, Fell. Naked necks everywhere. Trust me, you'll blend in even more without it."

"But I am greatly fond of this neckcloth."

"You stick out like a sore thumb. I mean, tartan?"

"Tartan is  _ stylish, _ I will have you know!"

"If it really makes you uncomfortable, you can keep that collar buttoned up."

"Oh, can I?"

"Sure. You'll look a bit like an ancient professor but hey, some folks are into that."

"...Is that a bow tie I see over there?"

"Hm, yeah. Wait, you're not thinking of—"

"Jolly good! Crowley, they have it in tartan."

"Oh,  _ brilliant." _

—

"Crowley, might I ask... what that young pair is doing?"

"Huh? Ah, hang on. They're on a date, looks like."

"I do not know what that means."

"It means they like each other. See? They're holding hands. Dating."

"That boy just kissed her hand! Surely they are too young to be forming an attachment."

"It's not like they're getting married. It's all just a bit of fun."

"And that is all right? To show their affection, out in the open like this?"

"Yeah, sure. No one really cares, s'long as they don't bother anyone else."

"This is the most remarkable thing. I cannot imagine this being so readily done without scandal."

"They're just holding hands, Fell. Everyone does it. Friends do it, too."

"So you also do it with your friends?"

"Well, not with  _ my _ friends. My lot isn't really a fan of the whole soppy lovefest thing. But other people do."

"Seems rather nice."

"Yeah, it is."

* * *

Off the myriad of discoveries that Aziraphale has had to acclimate to in this strange modern society, the most peculiar, by far, has got to be the moving stairs.

They are... well, exactly so. Stairs that move, seemingly without prompting. This particular one approaches the floor below, and down they go on their own. It is as much of a wonder as it is a catalyst of the gravest of doubts. How does one get it to stop, that persons may be allowed to step on them? Or are they merely decoration? There does seem to be a propensity for excess in this time. Where are the people overseeing the safety of this rickety contraption? 

His doubts pile up in increasing measure as they approach the moving stairs. Crowley shows not a shred of concern on his face, and it puzzles him exceedingly. Aziraphale scans for some control panel, or a button to operate, but there is none to be found. There's only the moving stairs, enclosed at the sides with glass, moving into the abyss below.

He stops, stock-still, at the top of the stairs.

Crowley lands a foot on the step, but makes a hasty retreat when he glances at Aziraphale.

"Fell?" He does not know what to make of Crowley's tone. He is afraid of making a spectacle of himself. "It's fine. Just hop on."

"There are some strange noises coming out of this contraption. Are you certain it is safe?"

"Yes. Come on. One foot and then the other."

Aziraphale dips a foot onto one moving step. Instantly, it inches his leg forward. Panic rises up his throat, and he leaps back a half-step, awfully ashamed at the whimper he makes as he does so.

Crowley rolls his eyes. "It'll be fine. Trust me." 

A hand comes to wrap around his arm, circling over his sleeve.

"Cr-Crowley!" Aziraphale wrenches his arm out of his grasp, snatching it to his chest, and there's a remnant of warmth that sears into his skin. He hisses. "What do you think you are  _ doing?" _

"I'm just helping you get on! Wasn't trying anything."

Aziraphale takes a calming breath. The seeming lack of boundaries in this new society is sending him well into his dizzy age. What is now allowed? What cannot be done still? The navigation of this uncharted territory goes far beyond his mental capacity. He looks at Crowley—the one person who, most unexpectedly, has become someone he can trust. Who else is he to go to, after all? 

Through his still shaky countenance, he gives a meek nod.

Crowley smiles—small and soft. Almost in the nature of affability and near being friendly, even. But before Aziraphale could ponder on it any further, Crowley moves to clasp his hand.

It sears and fritters, sending sparks up his arm and blood pounding in his cavity. He barely registers being pulled onto the moving stairs, and only comes to when he has got two feet on, and then they are moving. He stares, mouth gaping, at their joined hands. There is not a soul around to see—they have got the moving stairs quite to themselves at the moment, though he cannot but worry at who  _ might _ see, should there be a change in any circumstance around them.

He quickly shifts to look around, into the floor below, as the distance decreases.

"Utterly remarkable," he gasps.

He turns to Crowley, and finds that Crowley has been studying him.

"You mean to make sport of my simplicity."

Crowley laughs in return. "It's a little entertaining, yeah. Sorry."

"One of these days, I will astound you with my sagacity, and then we shall be equally merited."

"Looking forward."

"Or better yet, I will simply catch you in the act of something dreadfully mortifying."

"For a Victorian, you can be a right bastard, d'you know that?"

They approach the end of the moving stairs. 

They are still holding hands.

A bright flush threatens to overtake Aziraphale, and he grinds against the urge. Without the protection of his neckcloth, he will be so shamefully exposed if he does so. He's had quite some time to battle out his reactions, this cannot be much different, can it?

Crowley drops his hand, walking ahead a couple of strides. As though he did not just turn Aziraphale's world entirely over. As though it meant mere nothing.

_ 'Friends do it, too.' _

Are these people really so affectionate with one another? Aziraphale would own there to be great appeal in the ready offerings of connection, and how such bonds formed can be so openly expressed. How the searing touch of skin on skin can be so normalised—it is all so beyond the realm of fathomability, and it trivialises all the customs he has ever known.

He follows Crowley as they walk, without fully registering their surroundings. The ghost of Crowley's touch lingers on his hand, as though he has yet to let go of it, or has chosen to leave a trace of himself for Aziraphale to carry. There is something dreadfully intimate that he finds in the act that proves so simple to Crowley, and the asymmetry of it can hardly be explained. Instead, he lets his heart run where his mind refuses to venture any further, and finds himself deeply wondering: Have Crowley and himself become  _ friends? _

"Oi, Fell!" 

Crowley's voice rings like a church bell into his barreling train of thought.

"Hurry up, will you? Just because you're practically a grandpa doesn't mean I'm allowing you to slack off."

"Please. I am not eight-and-thirty."

Crowley raises a brow at him. "No.  _ I _ am not  _ 'eight-and-thirty' _ . You must be like, two hundred years old by now."

"That does not count! I hardly even lived the better part of those two hundred years."

Crowley slides his hands into the pockets of his tight trousers, a devilish smirk playing upon his thin lips as he leans, ever-so-slightly, towards Aziraphale.

"If it makes you feel any better, you look extremely well for someone your age." 

Aziraphale has no idea how he should react. He stands, shell-shocked, as the rising urge to grind his foot and leave outright makes pronouncement in his chest. 

Crowley laughs again, full and heartily amused, while a blush fights its way up Aziraphale's neck.

Getting rid of his neckcloth was a grievous mistake.

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think in the comments
> 
> Or come talk to me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/angelsnuffbox) and/or on my newly created [ Tumblr.](https://angelsnuffbox.tumblr.com/) I'm just a reblog machine at the moment but I'm looking for friends in the GO fandom <33


	3. The Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A few more memories come back to Aziraphale, and Crowley shows him a brand new world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't thank everyone enough for reading and enjoying this <3 Hope you enjoy this next chapter!

Crowley is an only child, something that a lot of people have wanted to know more about, but there's really not much to say about it. His father was a bit of a looker back in his twenties, and his mother took one look at him and thought _'Wow. I need to have a baby with that man.'_

That wishful thinking would be granted ten months after. 

After the novelty of a miraculous childbirth faded off, it didn't take long for them to realise how little they could stand the other's presence. So they spent as much time as they could apart, doting on their 'precious darling boy' and seeing no point in having any more. It wasn't all that bad. There were never any rounds of knuckle-gripping verbal sparring, nor any soap opera-worthy strikings. Just a ton of half-mumbled passive aggressive remarks. Lots of fake smiles over the dinner table. Then finally, a barely memorable divorce once Crowley hit seventeen. 

He's also never been gifted with the talent of befriending people. As a teenager, Crowley was the gangly kid with a face that was way too pointy to be pleasant to look at. And when he did manage to get himself to approach the people he regularly saw, he winded up choosing entirely the wrong crowd, and that went terrifically horrendous for a while.

Needless to say, Crowley has been alone for most of his life. He's always valued his privacy, almost to the extremes. He has his job. He has his plants. He has Bee and Dagon, and even they are still wary of being _too_ familiar with him. He doesn't have relationships that last. You gotta be firm when people try to invite themselves over, after all. And the people who have come over to his place have all been either too sloshed or (point of pride to him) too horny to take a good look at his belongings. But he does have living things in his flat. Plants, for instance, are free to live with him since they do their thing and can't walk. 

It's very different to how things are now. Now that there's someone living _and_ walking around in his flat. 

That the living, walking someone is a white-haired bookseller from 1856 is the point that his brain still struggles to come to terms with in the past week that Fell has made what was his home in the long, long past his home once again.

"This is... a tad overwhelming."

Fell casts a deeply suspicious glance at a stack of plastic-encased paperbacks on the 'Hot Reads!' table right up the front of the shop. The books have obviously been rifled through and they pile up into disarrayed columns on the cheap display surface. 

"What sort of establishment is this?" Fell asks, failing to mask his horror.

"Hang on, lemme check." Crowley throws an exaggerated glance behind him to peer at the glass windows. "According to those extremely large painted letters, we're inside A.Z. Fell & Co. bookshop! Huh. Can you believe it?"

"No, I can hardly comprehend!" 

"I did try to tell you that it's very unlikely that they still have your book."

Fell gives him a look that appears to be very cross. "It would not have hurt to try, I figured."

"You've been trying for almost a week now. There are plenty more bookshops in London, you know that, right?"

"There is not much sense in it!" Fell throws his hands upwards, exasperated. Crowley raises an amused brow. "Why have they bothered to retain the name if all the contents were to be scrubbed off?"

"Look, I'm sorry they don't have your book, all right? But there's nothing we can do about it. Maybe we need to try a different approach."

Fell grips the edges of his jacket, drawing them tighter around his torso. "The most infuriating thing, this is. I know, Crowley, that my laying eyes on _the_ book is the only thing needed for me to remember how I got here, and surmise a way for my return."

"Then perhaps it's in some other antique bookshop? Because it's definitely not in here."

"There is an equal likelihood that it has been sold to a private collector, supposing that it did not perish in the fire." Fell's shoulders sink an inch lower. "I have been a most unmitigated fool. I have not even considered that as a possibility!"

It's unbearably obvious whenever Fell is disappointed. He has a bright - well, everything. Bright hazel eyes. Bright fluffy hair. Bright and broad smile, usually nervous half the time, but blinding the other half. It's almost a weird scientific phenomenon to watch Fell walk into a room and light it right up with all the wattage he has in him. That's when he's being happy. When he's eager or excited, curious or fascinated with some new modern discovery.

And when he isn't any of those things, the room dims, and shadows form from each of the walls. Suddenly everyone else gets a smidge down, but no more than Fell himself, who looks like he went through a violent tumble in one of those not-a-carriage throttle machines he complains so much about.

Crowley gives a light tap to his shoulder to gain his attention. Fell jumps slightly, his head whirling back to look at him.

He quickly retracts his hand. "Tell you what. It's best to take your mind off of it for now. I've thought of something we can do in the meantime." 

—

They return upstairs to settle down in Crowley's sitting room while watching the North and South miniseries. (Yes, Crowley has the DVD. No, he will not explain any further... So what if Richard Armitage looks fucking dreamy in a stupid cravat? That's neither here nor there, and far be it from Crowley not to show grand appreciation towards history from time to time.)

He's sprawled out on the sofa, his limbs bent at uncomfortable-looking angles while Fell primly tucks himself into the armchair with his hands folded on his lap. With an amused huff, Crowley notes the stillness in his shoulders as he sits fully engrossed in the 'mobilised portraits'. 

"I do not remember the novel being quite this sentimental," Fell remarks with a tinge of softness to his tone. To Crowley it looks like he's about to start crying. "This focus on the romance aspect was never in the text."

"It makes for good telly," Crowley says, shrugging. He settles into another weird position on the sofa, craning his neck to keep watching.

Halfway through the series, Crowley glances back at the blond. He finds a drastic change to his look, his features overtly tight. Crowley sits up. "Fell, you all right?"

Fell is quick to give him reassurances, but Crowley isn't convinced. A faint furrow takes residence in his brows and the corner of his mouth is twisted in concentration, like he's in pain and is trying not to let it show. He keeps brushing the back of his head. 

"I'm gonna get myself something to drink," Crowley says, standing up. "D'you want anything?"

Fell shakes his head. "I am tip-top, dear boy."

He disappears into the kitchen, deciding to go ahead and make himself a sandwich as well. It's these menial tasks that occupy him as he putters about and hears signs of movement from the sitting room. There are a couple of footsteps, indicating that Fell just stood up. Is he making his way to the kitchen, too? Perhaps he changed his mind.

But no Fell appears in Crowley's squeaky clean monochrome kitchen. When he returns to reclaim his seat, snacks in hand, he's surprised to find that Fell has stretched out on the sofa, an arm dangling out over the edge. His lips are slightly parted by quiet, even breaths. He's fast asleep.

"It's just like you to wait for me to scram just so you could steal my spot," Crowley grumbles, reluctantly settling himself into the vacated armchair as he tears off a portion of his sandwich. "You're really a right bastard."

The actors on screen keep talking, but Crowley has his eyes fixed on the sleeping figure the whole time he consumes his snack. "And you probably need more sleep, too. It looks like you dropped right out of the sky."

And no, Crowley will not explain _that_ any further either. For one thing, it certainly has nothing to do with the Victorian's gently plump cheeks and his bouncy glowing curls. He can sort of understand it if anyone were to compare Fell to an angel. There's a marked resemblance, Crowley would admit. But that doesn't matter.

It's of no particular importance to him at all.

Nearly an hour later and he hears the familiar ping of a text message rattling his phone, albeit muffled. Crowley sweeps his eyes over the coffee table but doesn't find it there, nor is it in any of his pockets. With a sigh, he remembers leaving it on the couch when he got up to the kitchen, and he crosses over to lean over Fell's sleeping form, hand hovering behind his immobile shoulder to try to extricate it from underneath him.

When he draws closer, it becomes more apparent that Fell has definitely fallen asleep on top of his phone, and Crowley wonders how he can best do this without waking him. He curls his palm over Fell's shoulder, grasping firmly. 

He's just about to very carefully lift it up when all of a sudden, Fell's mouth opens to let out a pained, heaving gasp.

* * *

_Mr Fell stands inside his bookshop, smokey and blurring on its edges. Garish light hangs over his head as footsteps approach him furiously._

_"_ _—_ _In league with the forces of darkness!_ _—_ _"_

_"No!" Mr Fell snatches the attacker by his cloak, toppling him backwards._

_"_ _—_ _Possessed by a demon! We shall exorcise you. Return to Hell, from whence you came!_ _—_ _"_

_"Keep away!" Mr Fell utters desperately, the weight of a brass paper-knife heavy in his palm. "Keep away from the circle!"_

_The pain is not so much as intense this time when his head hits the ground. It is a shocking, bruising thing, and it knocks all air out from his lungs. But it feels a mere nothing. Broadly unfelt. The book lies just beyond his reach, and he makes for a crawl towards it, frantic stormy eyes catching a glimpse of the worn binding._

_'Rituals... Tested and true'_

_He is trapped inside of a bubble of nonpassing time, where he retains the ability to move, though everything that surrounds him is immobile. There are no violent attackers. No ringing of bells and no scent of jasmine. There is only still air and the rushing of his thoughts, wrestling with a blooming, unfelt pain radiating from the back of his head._

_Three steps... three steps to obtain the heart's desire._

_Words. Markings. Wish._

_Has he done all three? Surely he must have, only there remains no way to be entirely sure._

_The moment of nonpassing time comes to an end. A hand snatches up the book before he can seize it. Stinging pain forms across one of his cheeks. This one is much more felt, and he crumbles down to the ground as his coat smears the chalk-drawn sigils that lay beneath him, hands reaching out to clutch sturdy yet empty air and nothingness._

_He's landed inside the circle._

* * *

Aziraphale awakes with a start to find Crowley's face, mottled with worry, hovering inches above his own. Through the struggle of taking in and expelling a breath, he registers the thunderous crash of a heart in his chest, threatening with an escape. The felt pain of a sting on his cheek grows more rampant and his eyes dart wildly, spotting an open palm held out by Crowley beside his own face. Did Crowley _strike_ him awake?

The red-haired man makes an attempt to move back, and it comes to Aziraphale's consciousness that he has dug a claw-like grip on both of his companion's shoulders. When again he attempts to extricate himself, equally surprised are they when Aziraphale tightens his hold, barring him from increasing the distance between them. 

Aziraphale attempts to speak, though he is wretchedly feeble, the words dissipating into heat behind his molars before his tongue could parse any of them. Crowley allows himself to be lowered, concern written over his features.

"It's just a nightmare, right? Nothing to worry about," he says consolingly.

The proximity with which they positioned themselves could only be intensely felt. Crowley's torso pressed on his own, pressed together, _moving_ together. The rise of one's chest gives way to the sinking of the other's own. A wildly hammering heart nestled under the protection of a much calmer one. Aziraphale begins to match his breathing with Crowley's, until each subtle shift comes to agreement. A synchronous push and pull, of a seeking and a finding. 

When at last Aziraphale regains normalcy in his breath, they move into properly seated positions on the couch. Very promptly does Crowley rise up from his seat to make him a cup of tea. Aziraphale murmurs a silent thank you as he takes the porcelain in miraculously steady hands.

"May I inquire what you were doing before I was roused from my sleep?" Aziraphale mumbles over his teacup.

"You fell asleep on top of my phone," returns Crowley. 

"Oh, did I? I was not quite myself then. I do apologise."

"Apologise? You dropped unconscious, didn't you?"

Aziraphale gnaws on the corner of his lip, giving an artful head tilt. 

"Everything was about normal, until I felt this pain at the back of my head. Same as the one I felt on my first night here. When you got up, I attempted to walk it off, only I found myself quite overcome, and then... Then I must've fallen and slipped off to sleep."

"Looked like a dreadful one, too. Was just trying to get to my phone and then you grabbed me and started panicking. Then I yelled to try and wake you up, but you didn't seem to hear me so I slapped you instead. Sorry 'bout that, by the way. I didn't know how else to wake you."

"It is quite all right," replies Aziraphale, warmth flooding his face. "I suppose I should say thank you."

"Nah, don't mention it."

"It was very kind of you to comfort me the way you did."

"M'not kind. Don't ever call me that."

"Oh, I did not mean any offence."

"You just! Looked!" Crowley takes a pause to gesticulate wildly in the air. 

Aziraphale raises his very puzzled brows. "I do not--"

"You looked like shit!" Crowley says, his tone gone a tad squeaky.

Aziraphale frowns, his mouth gaping. "I beg your pardon?"

"N-no! You just!" Crowley slaps a hand to his face, rubbing right over his eyes. "I mean, it looked like you needed the help, is all."

"Then in that case, I am glad for it."

Crowley's face has turned a darker shade, and for some reason he would not meet Aziraphale's eyes. Sighing, he returns to the matter at hand.

"Fell. That dream you had, did it remind you of anything more?"

Aziraphale gazes fretfully at him, as though trying to recall an elusive memory.

Ultimately, what he decides to do is lie.

"No, Crowley. Unfortunately, I remember nothing at all."

—

The following day is an awkward affair for our odd duo. Following the incident with his 'nightmare', Aziraphale's movements around Crowley have tipped off sideways. It could only be imagined how this is being taken by the other man, when Aziraphale cannot even muster the ability to look at Crowley, neither could he stand in the same room as him. One might have thought that Crowley has committed some awful crime, though he knows this not to be the case at all. If anything, the fault is entirely Aziraphale's, as it has always been all his life. But he does not know how to make his amends, to forge some sense of normalcy back into his actions. He is far too confused, his mind preoccupied with comprehending a world so unlike the one he is accustomed too. It is too much, and his inability to cope spills over to his actions, manifesting as the grating tension that has suddenly sprung into existence between Crowley and himself. Until finally, unable to bear it any longer, Crowley proposes that they go for a walk in the park.

A moment of reprieve is provided to Aziraphale when they go by foot rather than riding in one of those _automobiles_ that are apparently ubiquitous in this modern society. The actual duration of their promenade, however, is filled with tense silence. When at last they arrive, Crowley reaches some breaking point and says in a manner so striking:

"The dream reminded you of something, didn't it?"

Aziraphale refuses to respond.

"Fine, be like that. I've no idea why you won't want to tell me about these things when you promised me, Fell. How are we supposed to solve this mystery if you don't tell me?"

"Perhaps there are a few matters that are best kept to one's self," quips Aziraphale.

Crowley gives a loud groan as they stride past the edge of a pond, glowing softly under the cast of partially obscured sunlight.

"But this is too good of a mystery to pass up. We're supposed to be Holmes and Watson-ing this, aren't we?"

"It is not that simple, Crowley. This isn't some fanciful adventure book."

"Holmes and Watson tell each other _everything,"_ replies Crowley, blatantly ignoring his remark. "Absolutely no secrets between the two of them. _They_ keep secrets from everyone else, but never from each other. Well, 'cept when Holmes is being a bit of an arse, and that time he faked his death and Watson went on believing it for years—"

"Holmes did _what?"_

"Oh, shit."

"I have not gotten to that part yet! _Crowley!"_ Aziraphale whines lengthily.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Crowley flails his hands. "Forget what I said! It was nothing, I swear!"

"There is no forgetting it now." Aziraphale sighs forlornly. "But going back to the matter at hand, it may very well be true that they are mostly earnest with each other. But then again, _you_ are hardly a Watson." 

Crowley shoots a wildly disbelieving look. "Oh, no. Nononono. Fell. Sweet, innocent Fell. I am definitely Sherlock Holmes in this duo."

Aziraphale slaps a palm over his mouth and snorts. "You as _Holmes?"_ His hand slides off in the eruptive fit of his giggles as he shakes his head. "No, my dear boy. That is impossible."

"You wouldn't even know a lick about him if it wasn't for me!"

"Again, I do not mean any offence. Only I thought it would be rather obvious that my superior academic sense renders me Holmes by default." 

"Are you saying I'm dumb? Oi, Fell. That's not how any of this works. I'm plenty smart." Crowley's mouth is pursed into a pout that, Aziraphale thinks, appears to age him down by a decade. "I'm the one with the unquenchable thirst for mystery and adventure, throwing off theories and what not. You are only here to witness how great I am."

"I beg to differ!"

In this line of argument they remain for the entire half-hour that follows.

When at last they settle into relative peace, Aziraphale finds himself in renewed spirits, relaxing a great deal. He turns to look at Crowley, working off in his mind how to put his situation out in more delicate terms.

"In my sleep, I had not a dream," Aziraphale says, seemingly at random, during a swell of a fit of silence that passes between them. 

They have taken up a bench facing the pond.

"What was all that about, then?"

Aziraphale takes in a lengthy sigh.

"I collected a fragment of a memory. Mainly, it seemed an exact copy of what I had been doing… prior to my dillydally across time."

Crowley turns to face him. "You remember everything."

"I now know the title of the book that I am looking for," replies Aziraphale, embedding into his tone a confidence that he does not entirely feel. " _'Rituals... Tested and True'._ And it did not perish in the fire. It was taken from me before the bookshop burned down."

Crowley blinks owlishly. "Who took it? Who were you with before you disappeared?"

Here Aziraphale could not but hang his head shamefully. "I do not know exactly. I know _who_ they are, but I do not know any of them particularly." He slides back into a slump on his seat and resumes. "The book is filled with ancient rituals for various purposes. The one I had was the only surviving copy, and there was... There was one ritual that I attempted to follow."

"Which one?"

 _"There are but three steps to obtain the heart's greatest desire,"_ Aziraphale recites, entirely from memory, _"the words, the markings, and the wish."_

"You attempted a ritual that would grant you a wish?" Crowley asks, incredulously.

"It is not merely a wish, Crowley. It is meant to grant the heart's greatest desire." Aziraphale rubs his temples, feeling the onset of a headache coming on. "And I had everything under control. Only, just as I was concluding it, I was ambushed in my home."

Crowley goes entirely silent. Then, his voice comes low and rumbling. "Who attacked you?"

"A group of eccentric and violent men, who meant to exorcise a demon out of myself."

In aghast spirits, Crowley blinks steadily for a few long moments. Then, when at last he recovers, his head throws backwards and he cackles madly.

"How can anyone think _you're_ a demon?" 

"Well, you see, I am..." Aziraphale wrings his hands over his stomach. "Oh, I did not know how to tell you this, but it is as you say, Crowley. Holmes and Watson keep no secrets from each other, and I am risking everything by doing this." 

"Risking what? Fell, you can tell me anything. Who else can you talk to about all this? I promise I won't judge. But if it's something dreadfully embarrassing I _will_ make fun of you from time to time, just a heads up. 

His stomach grows queasy, tangling into knots while he fumbles over his succeeding words. 

"Well, I... You see, I am - or _was,_ I suppose, a member of a discreet gentleman's club—"

"You're gayer than a treeful of monkeys on nitrous oxide."

Aziraphale gapes wildly.

"I! How _dare_ _—_ and in the _conundrum_ of such—with what manner of _imprudence—!"_

"Fell, Fell, calm down. It's okay. I mean, obviously it's okay."

"What do you mean it is 'okay'? Crowley, I am, quite literally, a criminal!"

"Not anymore, you dolt! Just, will you shut up and listen to me for a bit?"

Aziraphale acquiesces, closing his lips and settling for a forceful glare.

"Look. I understand that in your time it must've been very scary. And it sucks, really. History is often shit and it's unfair that you had to go through any of that." He is struck by the sympathy in Crowley's look and tone. "But things _have_ changed in that respect. I mean, not perfect, but it's certainly not gonna get you killed or arrested."

Aziraphale curls into himself. "Explain."

"Well, more to the point," Crowley lays one arm over the back of the bench and shrugs casually, "even if it is still illegal I'm hardly one to judge you for it."

Aziraphale's jaw hangs open, attracting flies.

"Surely you do not mean that _you_ _—_ _!"_

Crowley's grin widens mischievously, his dark brows climbing up his lined forehead as he takes in Aziraphale's incredulous reaction. "That I...?"

He flushes wildly. "That you are also—?"

"Oh, yes."

"Yes?"

"Indubitably." Crowley adds a click of his tongue. "Why d'you seem so surprised? You saw me with a man in my flat your first night here!"

"That gentleman you nabbed off the streets?"

"I didn't nab him off the streets, Fell, we were gonna fuck!"

Aziraphale burns up into a bright red shade, breath having caught into a stumbling block in his upper throat. He tugs, self-consciously, on his shirt collar. 

"I am... _Oh._ Oh my. That is... oh dear." His headache comes into full maturity and he clasps his hands by his hairline. "I am dreadfully sorry for... for interrupting that... I mean, I suppose I could not have _prevented_ it and I certainly did not mean to impose on any—"

"Fell, it's fine."

"You are being very gracious about all this."

"Honestly? I really don't mind," Crowley says. "I could always have sex, but adventures like this one you brought to me? Once in a fucking lifetime. This is way more important."

Aziraphale's flush creeps right back. "How can you talk so openly about...?"

"About fornication? Sorry, pleasures of the flesh?" Crowley leans in conspiratorially. "The Biblical act of wholesome _prigging?"_

"Will you stop that!" Aziraphale very quickly turns his head towards the pond. 

Crowley goes into another round of obnoxious laughter. "I don't think I will. It's so entertaining getting you all flustered like this."

Aziraphale huffs, and Crowley deflates a little, regaining a semblance of graveness to his expression.

"But seriously, Fell. You should know it's fine," he says slowly. "Look around you. Wait, no. How about I show you?"

"Show me what?"

Crowley rises from his seat, extending a hand towards Aziraphale.

"Come on. Let me show you what... what people like _us_ can do now." 

He stares at the offered hand with a skeptic gaze, his mind in circles on whether he should take it. A bout of concerns linger still, chief amongst them being Aziraphale's own ignorance in this new world's baseline propriety. But as he darts his eyes back up to Crowley, he sees a seemingly hopeful glow to his features. A flutter shocks his heart to life.

Tentatively, he slides his palm into Crowley's.

It takes a long moment for him to adjust to it, though it is hardly the first time. But the searing heat burns just as brightly as it did before, blanketing over the cross-hatched grooves of the lines of his coarse palm. Satisfied that he is not to pull away, Crowley secures his hold and leads him into a stroll, joint hands set into a leisurely swing in the space between them.

Hardly anyone takes a look at them, most people seem preoccupied with their own business. It is a most remarkable phenomenon. The few who do happen to catch their eyes send polite smiles down their direction. Aziraphale tightens his grip on Crowley's hand, as though to ascertain that they are, indeed, still doing it. 

Each time, Crowley would squeeze his hand in return.

"You see, Fell?" Crowley says in a near-whisper, alarmingly close to his ear. Aziraphale wills himself not to startle, though Crowley loosens his grip, his fingers sliding out momentarily from Aziraphale's hold, and causing an anchor to sink into his chest. A striking impact to dent on his heart. But just when he begins to feel their loss did those familiar long fingers return, this time to slide into the crevices between Aziraphale's own fingers. Crowley squeezes his hand again, and it is the most comforting gesture he has ever received in his life. It nearly moves him to tears.

They pass by two young girls who, like them, are also joined at the hands. Their walk is stalled, however, when one of them leans in to place a quick kiss on the other's mouth. They erupt into gentle giggles.

Aziraphale watches with marvelous attention.

Against himself, he wonders how it would be to do _that_ with Crowley as well. 

He dismisses the thought just as quickly as it came. 

"It is amazing how everyone can be so expressive about their love," Aziraphale says in awe. "How easily you all bare yourselves and commit to a partner."

"It's not all that serious, really," replies Crowley. "Not all partnerships have to go straight to marriage. Some people just do it because it's fun. Because it feels nice. And if they don't wanna do it anymore, they just say so and they break it off."

"Oh..." In all earnest, he isn't quite sure how to feel about that.

"The important thing," resumes Crowley, with a markedly more serious tone, "is that both partners are willing. And when one person says they don't like doing something, the other doesn't force them into doing it. It's all about enjoying the company, while also respecting boundaries."

He mulls all this over. "I think that I should still prefer the constancy provided by a fulfilling marriage," says he, then in a tone of self-deprecation he adds: "Though of course, I know I am never to have it for myself."

"You can, though," returns Crowley. "Well, in this age, at least. There's no law to stop you now."

The news is a great shock to him, and for a moment he allows himself to imagine.

Only for a moment.

He laughs. "While the laws may not prohibit me from marrying, my lack of desirability will surely do it well enough." 

Crowley gives him a puzzled look. "You don't mean that. Surely there's someone. Someone who'll be drawn to you."

Aziraphale does not even bother to imagine that conjecture. Instead, he shakes his head. "There never was and there never will be. My dear Crowley, I am built to be a lonesome creature, but for the company of my books." He deflates, gazing at the ground. "And now I do not have even that."

A flicker of guilt passes through Crowley's expression.

"What did you use the ritual for, Fell?" He asks, his voice gone unbearably soft.

Somewhat downcast, Aziraphale moves to meet his gaze, and in a scattering moment gives him a most wistful smile. 

"I wished to summon a friend."

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! Please do leave kudos and comments if you can, I'll be so grateful


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